than perfect. Could it be the pharmacological promise of
delivering good comfort and conduct in the form of a pill?
In the early 1970’s I found myself in grade school, but I
didn’t quite fit in. I was the class clown and the teacher’s
problem child. For grade after grade, I was separated from the
rest of my classmates, my desk adjoining the teacher’s desk, so
she could exert more immediate control over me. I was taken
to the hospital and given an EEG, because they suspected I
had epilepsy, manifested by petit-mal seizures. (I spent much
of the school day zoned out, staring out the window) The
flashing lights of the epilepsy test did not hold my attention
too long, and I started daydreaming about cartoons I had seen
on TV. The doctor’s determination: it is not epilepsy, but we
will help him with medication. My stepfather sampled my
prescription and in no uncertain terms declared I would not be
taking the medication, nor going back to the doctor for my
daydreaming and behavior problems. In fifth grade, my
teacher grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me in front of
the class while screaming “What is wrong with you?” Middle
school and high school were nightmares for me on many
levels. Not only was the ADD diagnosis not in vogue at that
time (the 70’s), there weren’t a lot of us around to be